Since the date of my last Letter, I have been a wanderer as usual,
and am now at least 2000 miles from the place where it was dated. At
this place are held 250 of the Seminolees and Euchees, prisoners of
war, who are to be kept here awhile longer, and transferred to the
country assigned them, 700 miles West of the Mississippi, and 1400
from this. The famous _Os-ce-o-la_ is amongst the prisoners; and also
_Mick-e-no-pah_, the head chief of the tribe, and _Cloud_, _King
Phillip_, and several others of the distinguished men of the nation,
who have celebrated themselves in the war that is now waging with the
United States’ Government.
There is scarcely any need of my undertaking in an epistle of this
kind, to give a full account of this tribe, of their early history—of
their former or present location—or of their present condition, and the
disastrous war they are now waging with the United States’ Government,
who have held an invading army in their country for four or five years,
endeavouring to dispossess them and compel them to remove to the West,
in compliance with Treaty stipulations. These are subjects generally
understood already (being matters of history), and I leave them to the
hands of those who will do them more complete justice than I could
think of doing at this time, with the little space that I could allow
them; in the confident hope that justice may be meted out to them, at
least by the historian, if it should not be by their great Guardian,
who takes it upon herself, as with all the tribes, affectionately to
_call_ them her “_red children_.”
For those who know nothing of the Seminolees, it may be proper for me
here just to remark, that they are a tribe of three or four thousand;
occupying the peninsula of Florida—and speaking the language of the
Creeks, of whom I have heretofore spoken, and who were once a part of
the same tribe.
The word Seminolee is a Creek word, signifying runaways; a name which
was given to a part of the Creek nation, who emigrated in a body to a
country farther South, where they have lived to the present day; and
continually extended their dominions by overrunning the once numerous
tribe that occupied the Southern extremity of the Florida Cape, called
the Euchees; whom they have at last nearly annihilated, and taken the
mere remnant of them in, as a part of their tribe. With this tribe
the Government have been engaged in deadly and disastrous warfare for
four or five years; endeavouring to remove them from their lands, in
compliance with a Treaty stipulation, which the Government claims to
have been justly made, and which the Seminolees aver, was not. Many
millions of money, and some hundreds of lives of officers and men have
already been expended in the attempt to dislodge them; and much more
will doubtless be yet spent before they can be removed from their
almost impenetrable swamps and hiding-places, to which they can, for
years to come, retreat; and from which they will be enabled, and no
doubt disposed, in their exasperated state, to make continual sallies
upon the unsuspecting and defenceless inhabitants of the country;
carrying their relentless feelings to be reeked in cruel vengeance on
the unoffending and innocent.[37]
[Illustration: 298]
The prisoners who are held here, to the number of 250, men, women
and children, have been captured during the recent part of this
warfare, and amongst them the distinguished personages whom I named
a few moments since; of these, the most conspicuous at this time is
Os-ce-o-la (+plate+ 298), commonly called Powell, as he is generally
supposed to be a half-breed, the son of a white man (by that name), and
a Creek woman.
I have painted him precisely in the costume, in which he stood for his
picture, even to a string and a trinket. He wore three ostrich feathers
in his head, and a turban made of a vari-coloured cotton shawl—and his
dress was chiefly of calicoes, with a handsome bead sash or belt around
his waist, and his rifle in his hand.
This young man is, no doubt, an extraordinary character, as he has been
for some years reputed, and doubtless looked upon by the Seminolees as
the master spirit and leader of the tribe, although he is not a chief.
From his boyhood, he had led an energetic and desperate sort of life,
which had secured for him a conspicuous position in society; and when
the desperate circumstances of war were agitating his country, he at
once took a conspicuous and decided part; and in some way whether he
deserved it or not, acquired an influence and a name that soon sounded
to the remotest parts of the United States, and amongst the Indian
tribes, to the Rocky Mountains.
This gallant fellow, who was, undoubtedly, _captured_ a few months
since, with several of his chiefs and warriors, was at first brought
in, to Fort Mellon in Florida, and afterwards sent to this place for
safe-keeping, where he is grieving with a broken spirit, and ready to
die, cursing white man, no doubt, to the end of his breath.
The surgeon of the post, Dr. Weedon, who has charge of him, and has
been with him ever since he was taken prisoner, has told me from day to
day, that he will not live many weeks; and I have my doubts whether he
will, from the rapid decline I have observed in his face and his flesh
since I arrived here.
During the time that I have been here, I have occupied a large room in
the officers’ quarters, by the politeness of Captain Morrison, who has
command of the post, and charge of the prisoners; and on every evening,
after painting all day at their portraits, I have had Os-ce-o-la,
Mick-e-no-pa, Cloud, Co-a-had-jo, King Phillip, and others in my room,
until a late hour at night, where they have taken great pains to give
me an account of the war, and the mode in which they were captured, of
which they complain bitterly.
I am fully convinced from all that I have seen, and learned from the
lips of Os-ce-o-la, and from the chiefs who are around him, that he is
a most extraordinary man, and one entitled to a better fate.
In stature he is about at mediocrity, with an elastic and graceful
movement; in his face he is good looking, with rather an effeminate
smile; but of so peculiar a character, that the world may be ransacked
over without finding another just like it. In his manners, and all his
movements in company, he is polite and gentlemanly, though all his
conversation is entirely in his own tongue; and his general appearance
and actions, those of a full-blooded and wild Indian.
In +plate+ 299, is a portrait of _Ye-how-lo-gee_ (the cloud), generally
known by the familiar name of “_Cloud_.” This is one of the chiefs, and
a very good-natured, jolly man, growing fat in his imprisonment, where
he gets enough to eat, and an occasional drink of whiskey from the
officers, with whom he is a great favourite.
_Ee-mat-la_ (“King Philip,” +plate+ 300) is also a very aged chief, who
has been a man of great notoriety and distinction in his time, but has
now got too old for further warlike enterprize.[38]
_Co-ee-ha-jo_ (+plate+ 301), is another chief who has been a long time
distinguished in the tribe, having signalized himself very much by his
feats in the present war.
[Illustration: 299 300]
[Illustration: 301 302]
_La-shee_ (the licker, +plate+ 302), commonly called “Creek Billy,” is
a distinguished brave of the tribe, and a very handsome fellow.
+Plate+ 303, is the portrait of a Seminolee boy, about nine years of
age;[39] and +plate+ 304, a Seminolee woman.
_Mick-e-no-pah_ (+plate+ 305), is the head chief of the tribe, and a
very lusty and dignified man. He took great pleasure in being present
every day in my room, whilst I was painting the others; but positively
refused to be painted, until he found that a bottle of whiskey, and
another of wine, which I kept on my mantelpiece, by permission of my
kind friend Captain Morrison, were only to deal out their occasional
kindnesses to those who sat for their portraits; when he at length
agreed to be painted, “if I could make a fair likeness of his _legs_,”
which he had very tastefully dressed in a handsome pair of red
leggings, and upon which I at once began, (as he sat cross-legged), by
painting _them_ on the lower part of the canvass, leaving room for his
body and head above; all of which, through the irresistible influence
of a few kindnesses from my bottle of wine, I soon had fastened to the
canvass, where they will firmly stand I trust, for some hundreds of
years.
Since I finished my portrait of Os-ce-o-la, and since writing the first
part of this Letter, he has been extremely sick, and lies so yet, with
an alarming attack of the quinsey or putrid sore throat, which will
probably end his career in a few days. Two or three times the surgeon
has sent for the officers of the Garrison and myself, to come and see
him “_dying_”—we were with him the night before last till the middle of
the night, every moment expecting his death; but he has improved during
the last twenty-four hours, and there is some slight prospect of his
recovery.[40] The steamer starts to-morrow morning for New York, and I
must use the opportunity; so I shall from necessity, leave the subject
of Os-ce-o-la and the Seminolees for future consideration. Adieu.
[Illustration: 303]
[Illustration: 304]
[Illustration: 305]
[37] The above Letter was written in the winter of 1838, and by the
Secretary at War’s Report, a year and a half ago, it is seen that
36,000,000 of dollars had been already expended in the Seminolee
war, as well as the lives of 12 or 1400 officers and men, and
defenceless inhabitants, who have fallen victims to the violence of
the enraged savages and diseases of the climate. And at the present
date, August, 1841, I see by the American papers, that the war is
being prosecuted at this time with its wonted vigour; and that
the best troops in our country, and the lives of our most valued
officers are yet jeopardised in the deadly swamps of Florida, with
little more certainty of a speedy termination of the war, than
there appeared five years ago.
The world will pardon me for saying no more of this inglorious
war, for it will be seen that I am too near the end of my book, to
afford it the requisite space; and as an American citizen, I would
pray, amongst thousands of others, that all books yet to be made,
might have as good an excuse for leaving it out.
[38] This veteran old warrior died a few weeks after I painted his
portrait, whilst on his way, with the rest of the prisoners, to the
Arkansas.
[39] This remarkably fine boy, by the name of _Os-ce-o-la
Nick-a-no-chee_, has recently been brought from America to London,
by Dr. Welch, an Englishman, who has been for several years
residing in Florida. The boy it seems, was captured by the United
States troops, at the age of six years: but how my friend the
Doctor got possession of him, and leave to bring him away I never
have heard. He is acting a very praiseworthy part however, by the
paternal fondness he evinces for the child, and fairly proves,
by the very great pains he is taking with his education. The
doctor has published recently, a very neat volume, containing the
boy’s history; and also a much fuller account of Os-ce-o-la, and
incidents of the Florida war, to which I would refer the reader.
[40] From accounts which left Fort Moultrie a few days after I
returned home, it seems, that this ill-fated warrior died, a
prisoner, the next morning after I left him. And the following
very interesting account of his last moments, was furnished me by
Dr. Weedon, the surgeon who was by him, with the officers of the
garrison, at Os-ce-o-la’s request.
“About half an hour before he died, he seemed to be sensible that
he was dying; and although he could not speak, he signified by
signs that he wished me to send for the chiefs and for the officers
of the post, whom I called in. He made signs to his wives (of whom
he had two, and also two fine little children by his side,) to
go and bring his full dress, which he wore in time of war; which
having been brought in, he rose up in his bed, which was on the
floor, and put on his shirt, his leggings and moccasins—girded
on his war-belt—his bullet-pouch and powder-horn, and laid his
knife by the side of him on the floor. He then called for his red
paint, and his looking-glass, which was held before him, when
he deliberately painted one half of his face, his neck and his
throat—his wrists—the backs of his hands, and the handle of his
knife, red with vermilion; a custom practiced when the irrevocable
oath of war and destruction is taken. His knife he then placed in
its sheath, under his belt; and he carefully arranged his turban
on his head, and his three ostrich plumes that he was in the habit
of wearing in it. Being thus prepared in full dress, he laid down
a few minutes to recover strength sufficient, when he rose up as
before, and with most benignant and pleasing smiles, extended his
hand to me and to all of the officers and chiefs that were around
him; and shook hands with us all in dead silence; and also with his
wives and his little children; he made a signal for them to lower
him down upon his bed, which was done, and he then slowly drew from
his war-belt, his scalping-knife, which he firmly grasped in his
right hand, laying it across the other, on his breast, and in a
moment smiled away his last breath, without a struggle or a groan.”
LETTER—No. 58.